


The Tempest

by Tanuki_Ghost



Category: In the Heart of the Sea (2015)
Genre: Angst, Biting, Forced Orgasm, Gags, Humiliation, Kissing, Knifeplay, Light Bondage, M/M, Masturbation, Mindfuck, Multi, Non-Graphic Violence, Sensory Deprivation, Situational Humiliation, Violence, essex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-26
Updated: 2016-03-26
Packaged: 2018-05-29 02:56:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6356113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tanuki_Ghost/pseuds/Tanuki_Ghost
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"He had gotten careless, arrogant. And look what it hath brought him."</p><p>During a rickety and stormy night, Captain Pollard is awaken by a presence in his quarters. But before he can react, a hand is clamped over his mouth and he is violated in his own cabin. As if that alone was not terrifying enough, what's more is that he has no idea whom it was. But one things was for sure: It was one of his own men; someone he trusted.<br/>It could be anyone.  He could trust no one but himself now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Tempest

**Author's Note:**

> I got this Idea and decided to run with it on a whim. I believe its safe to say I've watched this movie at least 10 times - aaand I'm pretty obsessed with it. This chapter does begins with somewhat of a slow burn, but the debauchery is everywhere.  
> I think Captain Pollard is a real cutey who his in denial about himself about a lot of things. I kept that in mind while putting this together.  
> So I genuinely do hope you enjoy.
> 
> As always, the nature of my stories tends to be a little more toward the non-con side, so you have been warned fairly.  
> If I get enough positive feed back, I will post the second chapter which is much more graphic and dirty.  
> Kudos welcomed, positive comments welcomed even more. c:

_Fandom: In the Heart of the Sea Pairing: Captain George Pollard X ??? / Captain George Pollard X Mob_

  
**Chapter 1 – The M** **istake**

 

The old ship rocked too and fro with the force of the surrounding rough seas rising and crashing against her hulls. It wasn't a particularly violent storm but it was still an unpleasantly uneasy one; and the Essex had certainly seen better days. Her old oak hull groaned and creaked with every rise and fall of the great whaling ship on the ornery black and blue waters.

The sky was as sick as a dog, an unpleasant dreary grey that dropped a steady shower of rain down upon the decks; soaking the masts and sails. It was evening now, approaching midnight and what little of the crew that was awake were the nightwatchmen and second shift decksman who were trying their bests to keep dry in the storm while still getting all the nightly duties done.

But they weren't the only ones up at this graveyard hour. Down in the chest of the ship, past the Galley and re-finished oil-stained halls – Wide awake and wide-eyed laid the Captain.  
Leader of this expedition, commander of the grand old ship and her mottled crew.

There he lay, tossing and turning on his bed behind grandiose doors in a spotless poshly decorated room lined with finery and expensive furnishings. Much a contrast to that of his subordinates who often slumbered on nothing more than dirty hammocks or crude bed-sacks stuffed with dry scratchy hay.

George Pollard II lay there in his comfortable bed of plumage and palatial linens, staring up at the ceiling; dark circles beneath his tired eyes – a weariness in his face. He allowed himself to close them for a few moments with the naïve thought that doing so may possibly help bring about the eluded sleep that just wouldn't seem to come.

His troubles seemed to haunt him greatest in the late hours such as these. It had been weeks since the last sighting of a whale. A month since they had let alone managed to captured one. And he felt like a failure. Failure as a captain, Failure as a sailor, Failure as a Nantucketer and most of all Failure as a Pollard.

A failure as _a son_.

The young captain's face contorted with the pang of anxiety he felt filling his gut at the burning thought.  
He could hear his father's voice now. See his face. Both so filled with disappointment and unfathomable shame at a son who couldn't even handle captaining a simple little whaling expedition.  
He could not fill the enormous boots of the Pollard family name nor do that which was expected of him; let alone even garner a shred of respect from his own men. He would be the laughing stock of all the other respected families back home. The shame would be too much to handle.

 _He_ was a disgrace.

George's eyes shot open to stare up at the musty wood of the ceiling once more.  
He slowly turned his head to look across the room at his study. There the faint glow from a spent candle illuminated a great map hanging by brass pins above his desk. Brown and red lines criss-crossed and cluttered the tattered and worn paper showing various overlapping sailing routes and hunting grounds. Many of which the Essex had already visited only for the crew to discover again and again to be all been fished out.

It was like a cruel joke, played by God himself. They had come all this way, gone through so much grief and had almost nothing to show for it. At only 280 barrels of oil, the young captain felt as empty as his ship's hull was.

But he couldn't give up now. Just couldn't. George could not bare to let his father down anymore, sullying the Pollard family name further. 3 generations of greatness and empire all reduced to joke and jest thanks to a failure of a son.

George clenched his fist with a memory that filled his head. One from not too long back. The evening after he had ordered the men to run their own ship head-on into a squall ; the very storm nearly doomed them all. The ship was in near shambles afterward. All because of him. He knew it, Mr Chase knew it, the entire crew knew it. Perhaps he was just not cut out for this life. The life of a sailor. The life of a captain.  
And in his anger and anguish he blamed it all on his first mate.

He remembered the words of first mate Chase as the two men stood across from one another. A showdown eye to eye.

“To return to port without even a single barrel of oil would be a **_Mistake_**.” Chase had said.

Even now those very words seemed to hang in the air, circling around him. cold. Frozen and repeating. George Pollard clenched his fist as they replayed in his mind over and over again.

Mistake.

Mistake.

**Mistake.**

Everything he seemed to do was a mistake. Or at least he was sure his crew or even his own Father thought as much.

But the only mistake that George could see had been made was making that arrogant fool, that Landsman Owen chase the first mate of his ship. How he couldn't stand the man! His blood boiled just thinking about him. He hated that the crew respected the bastard orphan whaler more than himself.

No matter the formalities or what tunic he wore, in the men's eyes it was Chase that was captain, not he. What bothered Pollard the most was that down in the deepest darkest recesses of his mind and body he could not deny that Owen Chase, the son of a Farmer was a better Sailor and whaler than he himself 'A Pollard' would ever wildly hope to be. And that alone tortured him into turmoil.

However, despite his hate and dislike of the man, Captain Pollard could not deny that Chase was right. Right about the the storm, about everything. But especially about the oil. And for that reason he would not let himself give up.

There was also something else he could not deny. Through all this confusing rage and self-loathing something else arose within him behind the hatred Owen Chase. It Always came back to rear its ugly head when his thoughts roamed to the cocky and authoritative blonde.

It was something that both confused and sickened him. A malicious heat that spread throughout his body, pooling behind his eyes and chest all the way down into his loins. To his alarm, he would find himself hard, straining and painfully so after brooding away at his dislike for the First mate. And he hated himself for it.

He hated himself for not being able to stop his uncivilized and carnal self that night after their fight; there in the quiet recesses of his own cabin, gliding a curious hand down into his trousers to give an inquesting squeeze. The touch evoked such a rapturous and gratifying sensation and he couldn't help but give himself more and more.  
That night, George had come harder than he ever had in his life just thinking of the near-shirtless blonde whaler and all his sickening arrogant glory. The sin of it all was nearly unbearable.

Masturbation was thought of as blasphemous amongst the Quaker faith back home. But he himself was no saint and he did not deny that. He had pleasured himself before a few times, however he rarely afforded himself the indulgence of doing so nowadays.

But life at sea was a miserable and isolated one. Nights were lonely and long, allowing the deepest, darkest, most wicked and depraved parts of a man's mind and heart to come out and manifest in the forms of debauch fantasies.

The captain was suddenly brought back to his present senses by a flash of light that filled his cabin. Seconds later a deafening crack and boom seemed to shake the frames and decorations on the walls. George jolted slightly, sitting up some on his elbows. He pulled the covers back and swung his legs over the side of the large bed. He looked up toward the thick of the window across the room in time to see another flash.

He never was keen on thunder. It scared him greatly as a child. He exhaled shakily, falling back onto the bed once more. He could almost laugh at himself for jumping as he did. But was too exhausted. He instead let out a loud and exhausted sigh, draping a hand over his face as he lay tiredly splayed across the linens.

The weather had been dreadful like this for 3 days straight with no rest nor signs of letting up. The dark skies went on for miles and miles – as far as the eye could see. Though occasionally the rains and winds would let up long enough for a sliver or so of sunlight to peek through murky dark clouds during the day. But that was always short lived. Times like this moral was low and the grey weather made the men lazy.

The lightening and thunder signaled heavier rains which of course followed shortly. The previously quiet room was suddenly filled with the sound of large raindrops showering the deck above and the surface of the waters below outside around the ship. He held his breath for a moment to listen to it. The sound was always a calming one; no matter where he was.

Soon he found himself breathing deeply, his broad chest beginning to rise and fall with the rhythm of the large old ship. It was always that place between wake and rest that he found himself the most hopeful.

Perhaps tomorrow would be a better day.

Maybe tomorrow they would find whales.

Maybe soon they could go home – and forget all about this trip and this ship.

Perhaps he would not be a disgrace after all.

And with that final thought, the Captain finally drifted off into a much needed long-awaited sleep.

 

Pollard whom had been deep in a peaceful slumber, found himself dreaming of beautiful things. He was walking on a golden-beach back home on Nantucket, bathed in the orange and pink light of sunset. Next to him as he walked was his beautiful new wife whom he had to leave behind only days after their extravagant wedding, when he took captaincy of this expedition. She was everything beautiful that he remembered her as; Golden dark brown hair and big sparkling green eyes. Small hands and delicate feet that left light prints in the sand behind them.

But when he looked back up to her smiling face, he turned pale to see her gorgeous eyes were now large and black; Her perfect angelic smile and white teeth were now sharp rows and lengths of baleen and beastly fangs; Frightening and grotesque. Her skin had become wet, clammy and slimy like a fish; covered in kelp and barnacles.

He pulled his hands away from her, shouting in shock as he nearly fell back. He looked back to this creature his wife had morphed into. It smiled monstrously, a crab climbed out from her matted and tangled soaked hair to scuttled down her arm as she reached out with a wet clawed hand to push him roughly at his chest.

George fell back into the waters behind them. And then the tide came. Swift and strong it pulled him back into the vast ocean. And suddenly he was fighting to stay afloat. The moments he managed to resurface he could see that ghastly monstrous being, 'his wife' standing on the shore motionless – staring as the current carried him further and further away. Dragging him deep below the dark waters.

As he was tossed around and pulled deeper and deeper into the waters below, he could see only darkness aside from the murky green light of the surface ahead. Then a terrible frightening noise like a screeching anchor on rocks filled him – rattling his head and chest. The young captain felt a dread set in. Terror. The familiar icy feeling signaling he was in danger.  
He looked about the water around him to see nothing but the murky depths that went on forever.

The noise came again. Closer, and he couldn't help the fleeting feeling that told him to run this time. He swam. Swam as fast as he could. But to his shock he felt his blood run cold as from the dark depths in front of him he saw it. The source of the terrible noise.

It was a whale. Larger than any he had ever seen, and it came at him head on and fast.  
Its big blocky head covered in scars, it rushed toward him with its opened mouth full of sharp and rancid baleen teeth. There was no escape. His lungs filled with sea water just as he opened his mouth to scream and the titanic beast swallowed him up like Jonah in one bite.

And the captain then found himself jolted awake, back in own his bed, covered in cold sweat. His skin was pale and clammy and his normally boyish curly brown locks stuck to his forehead damply. He pushed himself up on his elbows swiftly to look around the cabin room. The candle had freshly gone out. He could still smell the scent of soot and wax floating in the air. It was now dark. Nearly pitch black aside from when the lightening would flash from the windows.

He breathed out, placing a hand over his chest from where his heart beat thumped steadily from inside him. He slowly regained control of his breath and wiped the sheen of sweat from his face. He sighed wiping it on his bed sheets.

A loud 'Thunk” of a noise from the corner of the room garnered his attentions once more and he glanced in the direction from once it came.  
He sat up a little more in the bed, looking around the dark suspiciously. His ears attentive to every little noise. But all he could hear was the distant rumble of thunder from outside and the wind whipping past the ship and through her sails.

He decided it was just his lack of rest getting the best of him. Another moment passed and he heard the sound of voices and clammer from high above moving across the deck. He gave a sigh of contempt, rubbing his temple. The nightwatchmen crew were laying out empty provision barrels to collect rain water for drinking.

Pollard found himself chuckling at his own paranoid antics. What was he so afraid of? He was on an old boat out to sea in the middle of nowhere at least 700 miles from the nearest landfall. What or who could possibly danger him here? What absurdity. If his father could see him now. Jumping at bumps in the night like a young boy.

He lay back down, stretching out on the large bed and pulling the covers back half-over himself. He stared upward into the dark, listening to the violent winds outside the ship. He couldn't keep this up. He was exhausted, having not had any decent sleep for days now. His body needed the rest.

Reluctantly he closed his eyes and tried to occupy his mind elsewhere. He tried to think of anything that would help him along to sleep quicker. Peaceful fields of flowers, German symphonies, beautiful young maidens... None of it seemed to do much.

He continued to let his mind wander, searching for slumber. He felt a growing sensation of dread in his stomach as the image of First mate Chase crossed his mind. He frantically tried to push it away with thoughts of his wife. Her beautiful honey brown hair, her soft pale flesh, the curve of her small breast and round buttocks... But he couldn't stop Chase's face from invading once more – causing him to abandon all would-be thoughts of his wife.

Instead the thoughts gave way to the first mate's deep and commanding voice. His dominant posture and the bulge of muscle beneath his officer's tunic. The way his hulking body would move and flex as he worked the ship. Slowly but surely and steadily he could feel the beginnings of his manhood swelling with blood beneath the linens, tenting in his trousers.

Another thump in the dark made his eyes flash open again, flinching slightly. He held his breath listening for further noise within his cabin, but only the soft rhythmic creaking of the old ship's wood heaving filled his ears. Though he kept telling himself it was only the crew above, Pollard could not shake a new eerie sensation that crawled over his skin like a spider. The room felt colder, as if he was being watched or preyed upon; by someone or something...

He just kept telling himself over and over that the thoughts were irrational. That it was all in his head. It had to be.

Deciding everything was clear and he truly was alone in his cabin, the young captain allowed himself to take care of his need below and entertain the sinful thoughts of his first mate. He sighed quietly, tipping his head back onto the goose-feather pillow while sliding a large hand down to grope himself through his thin night-trousers. He bit his bottom lip gently to quiet the soft deep moan that arose from his throat. It died off into a quiet hiss as he squeezed a little firmer.

He could feel a damp spot on the front of the cloth, signaling how wet and leaking he already was.  
Good, he had to admit. It probably wouldn't take long to get himself off. Then he could finally sleep and forget he ever did this.

But just as he was setting back into his linens and reaching a hand past the rim of his pants, to his horror – Captain Pollard felt a hand strongly clamped over his mouth. His shout of surprise and terror was rightly muffled by what felt like dirty calloused fingers smothering his lips and gripping his jaw.

On protective impulse, he flailed and his hands shot upward to claw and pry at the hand on his face. He punched blindly into the darkness but he soon felt all the air knocked from his lungs as the force from another person's body imposed onto his. Who or whatever this was, now lay atop him in attempt to keep him pinned.

George immediately thrashed to try and buck the being off of him, but to no avail. Any upper hand he may have had was quickly wiped away as he felt a fist strike across his tanned face. He saw stars and felt his vision go dizzy for a moment before he felt a backhand across the other cheek – sending his head reeling.

As his vision shakily re-alined and cleared he looked up into the darkness above him to try and see who or what was accosting him. In a brief flash of the lightening outside, The cabin lit up an unearthly greyish light and he could make out the faint outline of a man havering above him.

Before the Captain could distinguish anything else he felt two hands grasping around his throat giving a threatening squeeze around his airway. They weren't particularly large but they were strong. Pollard still coughed slightly and sputtered at the decline of breath all the same. He could taste the metallic tang of blood on his lip. It must have been split by the force of the blow.

He continued to paw at the strong grip of the fingers but was only punished with the pressure over his airway increasing with a rough and violent shake further dizzying him. Each breath he took in seemed to get smaller and smaller and the edges of his vision were beginning to blur and fade from lack of oxygen.

In his panic, the young captain's mind began to wander and a mortifying realization set in.  
This man was going to kill him. He was going to die.

How could this have happened? How did he get it here?  
Usually Captain Pollard made it a habit to lock his door every night like ritual. He must have forgotten that night. He had gotten careless, arrogant. And look what it hath brought him. It was that same carelessness which allowed this fiend walk right in, and now he was about to pay the price.

Was this how it was all going to end? Right here in his own bed – without ever seeing the face of his murderer? Would he know no justice? Would his cold lifeless body be found in the morning? Or perhaps days from now when the stink and rot of his corpse was enough for his crew to investigate.

_His crew._

This man attacking him _had_ to be one of his own men. There couldn't be any other logical explanation...Could there? Perhaps this was the beginning of a staged mutiny aboard his own ship? Or maybe some deranged stow-away that had climbed aboard back in Ecuador had decided to kill him for his wealth.

In his fleeting panic, and losing steam quickly due to his exhaustion from lack of rest, George began to notice that the less he thrashed the looser the 'demon's' grip on his neck became. Tired, exhausted and defeated he took a chance and tested the waters; slowly ceasing his resistance. Just as he was on the verge of blacking out, the grip on the brunette's airway ceased.

Captain pollard sucked in as much air as he could without choking over the sensation. The much-needed precious oxygen quickly filled his burning lungs. He coughed and panted, weakly reaching up to gingerly feel at his throat.

Surely there would be an imprint on the skin there the next day.  
His smooth porcelain-shade skin marred easily, even as a child. Simple bumps and scrapes bared bruises like dark fruit on his pale flesh.

He looked up once more, dazed. The world around him seemed to be spinning.  
“Who are you??” he managed out, voice raspy and surprisingly louder than what would have been expected for someone that was just nearly choked out.

“I asked who are you?! Identify yourself!!” he growled again, trying to show some sort of backbone in the face of this attacker while frantically trying to re-aline his vision.

He was too weak and dizzy to fight back as he felt his arms overpowered and whisked above his head. The whaleboat captain felt something scratchy that must be twine or rope of some sort wrung around his wrists tightly restraining them together to the pegs of his headboard.

He began to fight again with a new-found strength, pulling at the restraints – hissing at the burning new sensation of friction from rope against skin.

There was a brief moment where everything became silent, when his straining eyes caught a glint of light in the darkness. That of which in the faint moonlight filtered through the clouds and into room he would soon make out to be a blade.

Pollard froze, seeing the dagger – now close enough to his face that he could see just how fine the edge on it was. Shave-sharp and connected to an intricately crafted handle. One that was unique. He could not help but believe he had seen this knife somewhere before. But the thought was quickly abandoned as the tip was brought ever closer to the restrained captain who gasped in fear for his life.

The man atop of him leaned down and close enough that George could smell his scent. It was that of every other man aboard this ship – Sweat and wood and whale oil. But there was something else to this one. Faint traces of Ginger, herbs and pine. The heady scent filled his nostrils with each scared breath. Each of which he feared would be his last.

“What is it you are after?” Pollard grunted out bravely. His voice sounded certainly braver than he felt. Though he did feel anger beginning to rise in his chest. Who was this man to think he could do something like this to him? Did he know _whom_ it was he was accosting?

“You think you can get away with this?? Killing a Pollard?!” he spat out in his exasperation.

“Shhhhh” the man seemed to say, quietly whispering above Pollard as he waved his dagger about.

He moved the blade lower to the man's exposed collar bone, causing whatever word that was about to befall his mouth to halt. His body tensed and froze up feeling the cool sensation of slick metal against his heated skin. The dagger was dragged lower and lower ever so slowly to the rim of where his night shirt was clumsily buttoned down the front.

George was trying his best not to quake in both rage and cowardice. This man was playing with him. It was as if seeing him shake and cower under the knife was some sick sort of amusement to the fiend.  
With a quick motion, the knife sliced through all 3 buttons of the shirt, opening the article of clothing and exposing his broad and sweating chest to the madman above him.

George struggled against the bonds once again, but to no avail – failing to free himself from the restriction.  
The man may have a knife, but he would be damned if was going to give up his life without a fight. He was a Pollard, damn it!

“I don't know who you are, but I shall have your head for this!!!” Pollard shouted, thrashing upwards once more.

This apparently angered the man above him who without warning brought the back of a hand down across the young captain's face; much harder than the first time. It left George seeing stars as his head whipped back across the pillow. Before he could really even process what had happened, he felt a thick braided cloth being stuffed into his mouth.

It tasted of oil, dirt and dust. Hit bit down and frantically tried to spit it from his mouth. He roared behind the gag, the dingy cloth muffling his indignation.

The shadowed man above him placed a hand back to his already bruising throat and gave a forceful warning squeeze to the Captain's neck. The other hand brought the cold blade back down flush up against Pollard's side. He pressed it just below the delicate curve of the thin brunette's ribcage.

Pollard ceased his struggle and arched away from the weapon as best he could. But he could only move so far with his wrists constricted. He breathed hard, pushing each labored breath through his nostrils. His normally prideful dark eyes were now wide, pupils blown with fear as he stared up into the darkness at the attacker.

He looked away, feeling the cool metallic tip running slowly down his chest. He dared not move an inch, lest he be gutted like a fish.  
He couldn't help but think how Ironic it would be to be cut to pieces like one of the very beast he had spent most his life hunting.

When the blade finally did came down in a quick motion, he closed his eyes expecting to be sliced open and bled out like a humpback. But to his shock he looked down to see the blade playing at the loops and string of his night pants. A quick flick of the man's wrist and the loops were cut open as well as a portion of the waist rim.

“What are you doing?” He wanted to ask, but the fear and shock paralyzed him from doing much more than watching with a horrified expression as the attacker began running his rough hands over his now-exposed body.  
George couldn't help the noise of frustration and disgust that escaped him as he felt that dirty hand smooth its way down over his navel and then lower to slip beneath the torn rim of his pajamas.

Instantly the attacker found his manhood, fingers grazing the half-erect flesh – Still in a state of arousal from his earlier thoughts and perversions of First mate Chase. This seemed to greatly amuse the man above him who lowered his face beside Pollard's ear and let out a chuckle at the discovery; one that was both menacing and lighthearted.

  
The captain bit down on the gag sharply, a loud gasp escaping him. He looked away, turning his head to the side to avoid the unseen gaze of his assaulter. Even in the dark, the shame that crept over him was strong and he couldn't handle it. This man probably saw him now as some sick and twisted masochistic sinful deviant – enjoying such rough and violent treatment.

He was by no means enjoying this. His heart felt as though it would leap through his chest at any moment, it was beating so fast in his distress and fear.  
The level of anxiety only increased three-fold as he felt the fiend's fingers give his manhood a generous stroke and tug – causing his hips to twitch and buck upward uncontrollably.

This pulled another quiet chuckle from the man above him. In caused a shiver to run up George's spine. The laugh though quiet and barely above a whisper was so eerily familiar. He could not place his finger on it. But this was for sure a man he knew. A part of his Essex crew, someone he had trusted.

His thoughts scrambled over the sensation of another firm stroke from the hand around his member. He tried hard to still his hips, but the touch of the warm, rough and forceful hand on him encouraged blood flow back into his erection – swelling in the grasp of the attacker's palm.

The captain let out a frustrated sigh behind the dirty gag, trying his best to pull away. He did not want to like this. But his body was responding whether he liked it or not.

Starting slowly, the attacker gently fisted Pollard's now straining erection within his trousers, jerking it back and forth at a steady rhythm. The other hand freely explored the pale and smooth exposed flesh of the Captain's chest, running teasingly over small pert rosy nipples which hardened under the warm calloused finger tips.

The captain did his best to restrain his bodies urge and impulse to lift his hips into the touch, twitching and writhing beneath the mans hands. He could not deny the reactions his body had to having another human touch him in his most sensitive areas after so long. Time out at sea was without warmth and companionship. The body craved it. And sailors had the needs of men.  
.  
George felt panic rising deep from within him, feeling that familiar heat and pressure pooling in his nether regions telling him he was close. The strokes soon became quicker. He groaned out loudly – closing his eyes and trying to think of anything else other than what was happening right now.

He didn't want to cum like this. He didn't want this sick man above him to judge him more, to think of him as nothing more than a disgusting degenerate for getting off on being abused, molested and humiliated by a stranger in the dark. He was no such thing. He wouldn't give him the satisfaction. He couldn't. He had to hold onto his last shreds of dignity. Just had to, no matter what.  
  
The shadowy attacker could not help but smile at the man's stubbornness. He leaned down, tongue running across the smooth expanse of skin along George's shapely collar bone. There he placed hot kisses across the young Whaleboat captain's neck and throat.

The new found sensations caused the cock in his hand to twitch uncontrollably, encouraging him further. He paused briefly to spit into his hand and return it to slicken the aching member and pick up pace. He squeezed a little firmer, smiling against the brunette man's neck; nipping slightly – leaving small mars on the soft pale skin there.

His lips then moved lower, finding a pale rosy nipple; and without warning he clamped his teeth over it, earning a muffled scream from the body below him.

George suddenly saw white and could not control the convulsions that suddenly racked him. His muscles seized and a tremble racked his body. He couldn't hold back anymore and shuddering, he came hard. His erection twitched and shot out hot wet ropes of sticky seed all over inside the front of his trousers as well as spilling and creating a mess all over his attacker's hand.

Pollard unwillingly road out the last waves of the orgasm, writhing against his bonds. Whimpering and gasping as shame flooded his body. After another moment, the man in the darkness above him removed his hand from George's pants and slowly wiped his fingers off on the bedsheets.

Several long moments passed as the young ship captain lay there beneath the warm body of his attacker. Over-heated and covered in a sheen of sweat, He tried his best to catch his breath. He panted through the dingy gag which was soon removed leaving a dry and dusty taste in his mouth.

Out of his exhaustion, he dared not utter a single word. He also held the new fear of someone walking in on the scene; seeing him taken advantage of and defenseless. There would really be no hope of respect from the men if that occurred.

Instead he prayed silently to himself that the fiend was finished with him. That the humiliation had finally come to an end and he would be left in quiet to writhe in his own mortification and abashment.

Those prayers were soon answered as he smelt a pungent herby scent beneath his nose; One potent like Ether and resin before his vision went dark. His last moments of eyesight seeing only the glint of the Daggers' elaborate woven handle in the hand of the madman.

The Captain's dark eyes then fell closed and his head felt heavy, dropping as he drifted into unconscious slumber.

 

 


End file.
